Which of Our Heroes?
by Abracadebra
Summary: Frogs. Inuits. Horses. Roller coasters. Romance novels. What do they have in common? Absolutely nothing, except that from time to time our heroes have crazy escapades involving a random array of questions on these and other topics, posed by HH fanfic authors and answered by yours truly. Inspired by the Forum thread of the same name and in response to Challenge #237. 2 PBA Golds!
1. LeBeau the Legend

_More than 11 years ago, a fanfic writer named AnotherJounin started a forum thread called "Which of Our Heroes…?" The idea was to pose and answer random questions about Hogan's Heroes characters. This game is still active in the Forum, and the thread now runs to 30 pages. Before I started writing stories, I was answering the questions on this thread, often with little story nuggets that I always meant to develop. So I decided to start collecting them. Some will be expanded, but mostly I just wanted to organize them all a bit better in one place._

 **Question by: Atarah Derek**

" **Which of our heroes would join an expedition to live among and study Inuit people?"**

 **Chapter 1: LeBeau the Legend**

In the postwar years, Louis LeBeau's feats of culinary derring-do became the stuff of legend.

At a time of privation and austerity, the former POW's extraordinary ability to stretch a meal made him a _cause célèbre_. Naturally, the activities of Hogan's Heroes remained secret, as they must. But the emergence of a small group of well-fed POWs from the Luft Stalag XIII could not possibly go unnoticed. How did it happen? Who was responsible? One thing led to another, and soon LeBeau's achievement had arrested the imaginations of attention of a news-hungry press corps.

In time, the world stood in awe of a man who—armed only with a rusty pot, a cracked wooden spoon, a dull knife, a wood stove, and the contents of occasional Red Cross packages – had not only managed to feed a busy crew, but actually fattened them up. There could be no mention of the black market delicacies, of course. But one glimpse at what French cooking did to his fellow prisoners—especially that unwary Englishman Newkirk, who fattened up dramatically over the course of just a few years in Stalag 13—was convincing evidence of the LeBeau magic.

Thus it was that in the years after the war, LeBeau built a worldwide reputation for brilliant but simple recipes that would bring cheer to any postwar dining room. He was even tapped to write the foreword to the French edition of MLK Fisher's brilliant "How to Cook a Wolf." Julia Child secretly took lessons from him. James Beard's interest in game meats was sparked by firsthand accounts of LeBeau's Luft-Stalag 13 rabbit stews.

Hob-nobbing with the world's finest chefs soon took up most of LeBeau's time, but one day the phone rang and on the other end was the renowned French scientist Henri Emil DuBois, who was heading to the Canadian Arctic to lead an expedition to the most remote Inuit village on earth. Would Monsieur LeBeau kindly consider coming along as the chef? After all, who but he could make blubber fricassee not merely palatable, but delectable? How could 20 French men and women manage the excursion without him?

Never one to decline a challenge, especially in service to his country, LeBeau donned his signature scarf and torn sweater and joined the expedition. Perhaps his most successful dish was _Pot-au-Feu à la Papa Bear_. He never let on that it contained polar bear. Along the way, he picked up the uncanny ability to converse in perfectly unaccented Inukitut, and taught up-and-coming Inuit chefs how to brighten up any meal with spices.

 **NOTES:**

Henri Emil DuBois appeared in "The Scientist," Series 1, Episode 2. This question was asked an answered in the "Which of Our Heroes" thread on March 5, 2015.


	2. The Ribbeting Adventure of Peter Newkirk

**Question by : Terri Spencer**

" **Which Hero Would Raise Frogs for French Restaurants?"**

 **Chapter 2: The Ribbeting Adventure of Peter Newkirk**

Peter Newkirk had to admit that he found devilish joy in raising frogs for French restaurants.

"Absolutely no sane person would want them," he reasoned. "Yet the ruddy French will pay me for them!"

He had LeBeau to thank for that, of course. On Newkirk's first journey to his old mate in Paris a year after the war ended, LeBeau had lamented the shortage of nice, healthy frogs in the restaurant trade. It seemed the war had taken its toll on commerce and damaged the train lines to Dombes in Burgundy, source of the finest _cuisses de_ _grenouilles_. If only he could get his hands on more frogs, LeBeau said longingly, he could prepare a marvelous dish that would thrust his restaurant into the ranks of legends.

The thought made Newkirk's stomach churn, but he was used by now to keeping his thoughts on the more appalling aspects of French cuisine to himself. Horses, snails, frogs… he'd have to humor his mate. As it happened, he told LeBeau, he knew where to get some lovely fat frogs. The minute he revealed how and why he had acquired this odd knowledge, Newkirk's fate was sealed. His mate needed frogs, so he would get them.

You see, notwithstanding his carefully crafted persona as a city dweller, Peter Newkirk knew a thing or two about frogs. He'd been mucking about along the Thames for as long as he could remember. The whole stretch of it from the Tower to the Isle of Dogs was his shore. Long ago, on late nights when he knew better than to go home, it was where went to clear his head. Home after the war, Newkirk remembered those long walks out to Poplar and Canning Town, where the River Lea met the Thames, with a forgiving fondness than only time and imprisonment could explain.

On summer nights, as darkness fell on the river, the sounds of boats tooting and barges groaning lightened, but never ceased. From dusk to dawn, chirps and croaks joined the urban symphony. Frogs, frogs, everywhere frogs.

At 15 or 16, Newkirk would sometimes walk so long and late that he followed the Lea north to the Hackney Marshes and spent a night with Mother Nature herself. Sleeping out wasn't so bad if a bloke could wake up on a soft patch of sweet grass to the gentle rumble and creak of the local amphibians. At least that's how he remembered it years later, when his clothes were a bit warmer and drier. Just like hopping down in Kent, but without the shelters. Or the campfire. Or the family.

Returning from Paris, Newkirk wondered what the hell he had got himself into. Oh, well, he did like the open air. What was that song that old Gus Elen, gawd rest his soul, used to sing at the Hackney Empire music hall?

 _Oh it really is a wery pretty garden  
And Chingford to the eastward could be seen;  
'Wiv a ladder and some glasses,  
You could see to 'Ackney Marshes,  
If it wasn't for the 'ouses in between._

Newkirk hummed the song for days and set to work trying to get someone—anyone—to join him on his first postwar jaunt to the eastern edges of Hackney. He nearly persuaded his youngest brother, and even consented to travel by bus, not by foot, the way HE did it back when HE was young. But in the end, even a grubby 13-year-old found it a barmy idea.

So Newkirk set off on his own on a summer Saturday before dawn to round up frogs for France, and not enthusiastically. He'd always been stuck with the odd jobs and the dirty work, even in Stalag 13, Newkirk thought sourly as he made his way to the bus stop with a cardboard box in hand. Well, horses for courses, he reckoned. Who better than he to round up unsuspecting amphibians and smuggle them into a foreign land to face certain death?

"There are 13 native species of amphibians and reptiles, collectively known as herpetofauna, in the UK," Newkirk read from a ragged copy of the _London Amphibians and Reptiles Atlas_ as the early bus bounced along.

"Bloody fascinating," Newkirk chided himself. "What has my life come to? I could be sleeping, or reading the racing form instead of this rubbish, but no. I'm stuck helping LeBeau." Damn that Frenchman for taking up lodgings in his heart.

"Five of the seven native amphibians (common frog, common toad, smooth newt, palmate newt and great crest newt) are found in Greater London," Newkirk read. So were four of the six reptiles, he noted, including the adder. Ooh, he didn't like the sound of that.

Trapping the frogs was the easy part. Smuggling a box of froggies home by bus and Tube was an adventure, however, especially when a half-dozen escaped on a crowded train. At that moment, Newkirk wished Carter was with him to capture the little blighters.

LeBeau, of course, was thrilled when Newkirk turned up in Paris two days later with a croaking, perforated suitcase. He bought all the frogs, prepared them lovingly, and started a buzz. Soon, he had connected Newkirk to a network of restaurateurs in Paris. _Et_ _voilà_ \- a legitimate postwar business!

 _Cuisses de_ _Grenouilles Anglaises_ became a bona fide gourmet sensation. Peter Newkirk never tasted it, not even once.

 **Author's Note:**  
 **Cuisses de Grenouilles** are frogs' legs. **Hopping in Kent** sounds like something frogs might enjoy, but it means bringing in the hops harvest each September, a traditional and generally joyful summer activity for East End families. **Gus Elen** (1862-1940) was a music hall performer who specialized in Cockney humor and songs. When Newkirk says " **horses for courses** ," he means he was the right person for the job. The **London Amphibians and Reptiles Atlas** is real, though it may not have existed in 1946.

This question was asked and answered in the "Which of Our Heroes" thread on April 6, 2015.


	3. Stable Boy vs Genius

**Question by: Tiny1217**

 **Which of our heroes would be a horse groomer after the war? Bonus points if it's not Carter.**

 **Chapter 3: Stable Boy vs Genius**

"Horse groomer, huh? You've got me," Kinch was saying. "It sure as heck won't be me. I've never been near a horse. How about you, Carter?"

"No way. My dad got kicked in the leg by our old mare, Sally, when she was a little filly and I was just a little kid. Laid him up for weeks, and he still has a limp. Nobody in our family has trusted horses ever since. I'm OK with our old mare, but I'm not going near any other horses," Carter said. "There was this one time…"

Nobody was listening as Carter babbled on, and eventually he petered out. Soon, the four Unsung Heroes who were gathered around the table in Barracks 2 sat silently, pondering the future.

"Could it be one of the Germans?" Carter asked, breaking the silence. "Because I could see Langenscheidt liking horses. He's a gentle guy. And he's just a corporal – jeez, put down the paring knife, LeBeau, no offense. Hey, quit kicking, Newkirk. You know what I mean, it's just he's not exactly going places. He might like a nice, simple job like taming horses."

"They said 'heroes,' you nitwit. That's us, not the bleeding Krauts," Newkirk snarled. "But don't underestimate ol' Langenscheidt," he continued. "I think he's quite versatile, like a lot of us working-class lads. He might not have a future as a horse groomer, but he's got options. He'd make a fine forger. Or maybe a Gestapo agent, since he's a ruddy German. Or a female impersonator." The others stared at Newkirk. He just shrugged and went back to shuffling his cards, muttering, "Don't put your small-minded, bourgeoisie limits on him, mate."

"Then it must be you, Pierre," LeBeau asserted.

"Oh, bloody hell, no," Newkirk said. "I never took to the ponies. Too boring, watching them trot round and round. I'd make a good turf accountant after the war, though," he said, with a faraway look in his eyes as he pondered the pleasure of separating fools from their money. "Hm. That has possibilities, that does."

"Turf accountant?" Carter asked Kinch with a squint.

"Bookie," Kinch supplied. "I can see it. OK, then, LeBeau? Could you imagine yourself as a horse groomer?"

"Jockey," Newkirk said, flicking his fingers distractedly as he focused on a hand of solitaire. "He's the right size for it."

LeBeau whapped him across the shoulders with his _toque_. "Pfft! If you let me near those _sales bêtes_ , I won't waste my time petting them," LeBeau scoffed. "I'll be too busy making you a nice _tartare de cheval_ , and I'll make sure you eat every bite, mon pote," he said, stabbing a finger at the Englishman. Newkirk gulped and blanched. Kinch put his hands up in surrender. Carter steadied himself by placing both hands on the table's edge and wondered what exactly was for supper.

"You're looking in the wrong place," Hogan said. He had suddenly appeared by the stove, and was pouring himself a cup of coffee. He stood there ominously, a cat-like grin crossing his face.

"Whatever do you mean, Sir?" Newkirk asked.

Hogan didn't even look up from his coffee mug. "Come over here, Garlotti," he said.

Tony Garlotti, lounging on his bunk across the barracks with a grubby tabloid from home inking his hands, startled at the mention of his name. Nobody talked _to_ him unless they needed a pizza recipe. And nobody ever talked _about_ him. He stood up, strode over to Hogan, crossed his arms, and looked up at his CO.

"You've got some pay piling up for you at home, Garlotti. Any plans for it?" Hogan inquired pointedly.

"I haven't really thought about it, Colonel," Garlotti replied, casting a skeptical eye first at the Colonel, and then at the attentive team that was, as usual, hogging up the only table in the entire barracks. Rude!

"Uh-huh. What do you want to do when you get home, Garlotti? You looking forward to running your old man's pizza parlor someday?" Hogan asked, leaning in a little too close for comfort.

"Oh, hell, no," Garlotti replied, backing up. "My brother Angelo can have it. I'm gluten-intolerant, and I'm allergic to dairy. And after three years in this dump, I want to live a little."

"Oh, live a little. Yes, I understand," Hogan said. "By the way, where DO you live, Garlotti?"

"Well, as you know perfectly well, I live in Newark, Sir. You've talked to my dad. But I really think of myself as a Brooklyn guy. That's where we lived when I was a kid, and my Nonna still lives there."

"Mm-hmm. Mm-hmm. Ever heard of Ozone Park, Sergeant?" Hogan asked.

"Sure, Sir, it's in Queens. Right next to Brooklyn. Real close to my Nonna, actually. Nice place. Open spaces," Garlotti said. "What are you driving at anyway?" He glanced around nervously. Five pairs of eyes were boring into him while the rest of the barracks residents lolled on their bunks doing nothing in particular.

"I'll ask the questions around here," Hogan snapped as his core team bobbed their heads in assent. "Now. How tall are you Garlotti?"

"What? Well … I'm five foot seven, Sir!" he replied.

Newkirk stood up and approached the Colonel, still shuffling the cards in this hands. "Well, I always say I'm five foot ten, Sir," Newkirk said. "So that makes Garlotti here … five foot five, if I've got my liar calibrations set correctly." He stared menacingly at Garlotti, who shot him a dirty look. Newkirk smiled grimly in response. Hogan merely nodded sagely.

"By the way, Garlotti," Hogan said, striding over to the Sergeant's bunk. "What's … THIS?" He whipped out the newspaper Garlotti had been reading.

Garlotti's dark eyes blazed as Hogan thrust the tabloid into Newkirk's hands. The Englishman gasped as he held up the newspaper for his friends to see. The words were clear as day: " _DAILY_ _RACING FORM_."

"Gentlemen, we have our answer," Hogan said smugly. "Garlotti alone has the means, motivation, and opportunity to become a horse groomer, or as we might put it, a STABLE BOY. The man is a racing fanatic. He subscribes to the _Racing Form_ even though he's here in Germany!" He turned to Garlotti with a sneer. "I'll bet you know exactly what the Aqueduct is, don't you, Garlotti?"

"The one in Rome?" Garlotti tried. But he knew he was cornered.

"Don't give me that" Hogan snapped. "You know perfectly well it's a horse track in … OZONE PARK!" He turned back to his core team, and laid out the facts for them.

"After the war, Garlotti here – all five foot five of him—will take his backlog of GI pay and start to live the high life at the Aqueduct racetrack," Hogan began. "But his years of studying the _Racing Form_ here have served him ill, and he's going to LOSE," he said, his voice cracking the way it sometimes did when he got excited. Newkirk snorted, remembering all the times he'd trounced Garlotti in poker.

"Poor Tony," Hogan continued, affecting a sympathy he would never feel. "He'll run through his nest egg fast and he'll have to find a job. Nonna will throw him out on the streets after he sells off her front-yard Madonna statues to cover his gambling debts!" His men looked quizzically at him. "Yes, statues! It's BROOKLYN!" he shouted. Regaining his composure, Hogan went on. " Going home won't be an option. Papa Garlotti doesn't APPROVE of gambling, and he's already decided to hand off the pizza business to Angelo."

"One day, Garlotti will be moping around the racetrack picking up pennies and trying to pass for a jockey when a trainer ambles up to him, asks him if he's ever thought about working with horses. One thing leads to another, and Shorty here finds himself mixing business and pleasure by working and playing at the race track all day. A stable boy is born!"

Hogan didn't even wait for the inevitable applause and adulation from his team. It was just another riddle that only he could solve. All in a day's work, Hogan reminded himself. Exactly why they pay me the big bucks. He smiled cryptically and turned on his heel, returning to his quarters as mysteriously he had arrived.

Garlotti stood there, stunned. "How did he know? How COULD he know? It's … it's the future."

"He's always had horse sense, the Guv'nor has," Newkirk replied, to groans all around. "Oh, come on, Garlotti, why the long face? The Colonel was only trying to stirrup some interest in the question."

 **H=H=H=H=H**

 _ **Author's Note:**_ _Garlotti, of course, appeared in "_ _The Pizza Parlor_ _." He was portrayed by Joe E. (Joey) Tata, whose IMDb profile puts him at 5'7", but I'm subtracting two inches on the grounds that actors routinely inflate their heights. For proof, I offer the fact that I met Dennis Quaid a few years ago and there is NO WAY he is 6 feet tall, as claimed in all his publicity. More like 5'9" in shoes with lifts! Ditto for Richard Gere, who is MUCH smaller than 5'11", according to my friend who met him. This question was asked in the "Which of Our Heroes" thread in the Forums on April 19, 2015, and was answered on April 21._


	4. Colorful Characters

**Question by: Konarciq**

 **"For each of the heroes, name their favorite color."**

 **Chapter 4: Colorful Characters**

Hogan likes white. Why else would he wear that ridiculously eye-catching trench coat? It's impossible to blend in while wearing it, so it's an odd choice for a spy, but this is Hogan we're talking about. Brazen is his middle name. It's a disaster to keep that coat clean, too, but he's not worried. He's got people to handle mundane things like laundry.

Carter likes blue, because he's a regular guy, and all regular guys like blue. 'Cause it's the default color for guys and it goes with everything and the sky is blue and his dad told him that one time that his grandpa always said blue was the best color to wear... Oh, anyway. He likes it, and cadet blue is particularly good on him.

For LeBeau, it is bleu, blanc, et rouge – le Tricolore! Vive la France! He is the biggest patriot of the group, so why would he stop at one color when he can have all three? Can't you just see him in a Breton striped shirt—with 21 blue and white stripes, one for each of Napoleon's victories? Topped off with a red beret and scarf, of course.

Newkirk likes green, because it makes his eyes stand out, and he has to admit it, the ladies do like his minces. As a tailor, he knows it's the most underrated color in menswear—so versatile! He's also heard that in America, green is the color of money, and who couldn't use a bit more dosh? After six years in the RAF, he's done with blue.

Kinchloe likes pink and frankly he doesn't care what anyone thinks about that. A pink shirt looks fantastic on him, and so does a bit of a pink stripe in a dark suit. And what's more, he's man enough to wear it. Anyone who suggests he shouldn't will be silenced by a glare and a quirked eyebrow, followed by a disarming smile.

 **Author's note:** Mince pies = eyes in Cockney rhyming slang. Dosh = money in plain old British slang. And I'm not making up the historical detail about the Breton shirt – it was part of the French Navy uniform and the number of stripes was not random. This question was asked and answered in the "Which of Our Heroes" forum on February 28, 2015.


	5. Dips, Turns and Drops

**Question by: Snooky-9093**

 **Which of our heroes won't go on a roller coaster?**

 **Chapter 5: Dips, Turns and Drops**

Colonel Hogan was on a roll, with a glint in his eye that conjured up his inner 12-year-old. There was no mission tonight, and none on the horizon, freeing the men of Barracks 2 to enjoy a rare evening of just plain conversation, with a heavy dose of nostalgia for home. Hogan was remembering some particularly adventurous detours during his regular boyhood road trips between Bridgeport and Cleveland.

"See, there's this park right outside of Pittsburgh called Kennywood, and they've got THREE roller coasters," he was telling a rapt audience gathered around the table."There's one called the Jack Rabbit, and it's got a double-dip that leads to a 70-foot drop right at the end." Hogan whooshed and whooped his way through the story, complete with hand gestures.

"Been there, Colonel," Olsen piped in excitedly. "I thought I was going to fly out of my seat!"

"Exactly! That ride has incredible airtime – when you hit that dip, you just know you're going to get thrown from the seat, and that train's coming off the track," Hogan effused. "And it sort of IS off the track—see, the design was very innovative. There are wheels under AND over the track, so you have that sense that the train's flying because the car's actually lifting up, but the up-stop wheels keep it on the rails. When I got to West Point, all I wanted to learn in my engineering classes was how to build one of those babies. Whew." The adrenaline was pumping.

"Tell them about the other two, Colonel," Olsen said, grinning like a cat over the unexpected discovery that he shared one of the Colonel's passions.

"Oh, yeah," Hogan said dreamily. "There's one called the Pippin, and it's got a big drop right out of the station, a lift hill in the middle, and a 90-foot drop at the end. Then they added one called the Racer, and it has two trains racing each other on a dual-track with a Möbius Loop." A risk-taker to the core, Hogan loved the thrill of a roller coaster and the sense that he might go airborne at any minute. As his bouncy narrative wound to a conclusion, Hogan looked as unguarded and carefree as any of his men had ever seen him.

"Blimey, Sir, I need a smoke after that," Newkirk said to a ripple of laughter. He grinned and continued, knowing he had successfully taken the floor from the other master yarn-spinner in the room. "I've only been on a couple of roller coasters. There's one at Dreamland in Margate, in Kent. About a 40-foot drop, I think. It's called 'The Scenic Railway.' Even sounds a bit dull by comparison," he allowed. "But there's a bigger one at the Pleasure Beach in Great Yarmouth. I went there on leave once. It's got eight or nine drops altogether, and the first one's called 'the head-chopper.'"

Newkirk let that word linger, pausing to take in the admiring glances. A head-chopper sounded significantly more dangerous than either a Scenic Railway or a Pleasure Beach. "Then the train takes you for a dive right under the structure," he continued. "And there's some bunny hops, then a 50-foot drop at the end." ("Oh, 'bunny hops' sound feeble, don't they? Should have left that bit out," he chided himself.)

"Jeez, I've been only been on the Cyclone at Coney Island, but that one does sound fun, Newkirk. What's that roller coaster called?" Kinch asked. He didn't bother to elaborate on how few integrated amusement parks there actually were in America.

"Uh, it's called 'The Roller Coaster,'" Newkirk said, triggering a round of snickers. "I suppose that as a nation we could put a bit more effort into naming them properly," Newkirk added sheepishly. "I mean, 'The Jack Rabbit'! Who wouldn't want to ride that?"

"I wouldn't," said Carter. His firm declaration was greeted with groans and mutterings of "killjoy" and "oh, come on."

"Seriously, Carter?" Hogan asked. "I would have guessed roller coasters were right up your alley." Ordinarily, if you could count on one guy to chime in during a discussion of exuberant, boyish fun, it would have been Carter. It suddenly hit Hogan that Carter had been surprisingly quiet. Was he looking a bit pale, too?

"Not once you've seen one crash to the ground, boy. I mean, Sir," Carter said. Now it was Hogan's turn to go pale.

" _Sacre bleu_! You have seen a roller coaster crash?" LeBeau said. "That's it, I'm not riding one again."

"Come on, LeBeau. That seems a bit unpatriotic," Newkirk needled the Frenchman, seeming intent on keeping the storytelling going rather than on getting to the bottom of Carter's uncharacteristic disquiet. "You know, roller coasters ARE French. They started out in Paris, mate."

"Russian," LeBeau corrected him. "We call them _Les Montangnes Russes_ for a reason. We improved the design, of course, but the Russians inflicted their stupid ice slides on the world."

"French," Newkirk insisted. A squabble would beat talking about whatever had silenced Carter, he reckoned.

"Catherine the Great, you idiot!" LeBeau yelled. "A RUSSIAN!"

"'Fraidy cat," Newkirk muttered.

"Shut up, both of you," Hogan shouted over the din. "Carter, when did you see a roller coaster crash?"

"It was at Krug Park in Omaha when I was a kid, visiting my aunt and uncle and my cousins," Carter said hesitantly. "Anyway, we were in line for the Big Dipper when— well you know what happened, Sir."

The mention of the Krug Park and the Big Dipper immediately arrested the attention of the other Americans at the table. Kinch and Olsen looked stunned, and Hogan looked concerned. "Worst amusement park accident in U.S. history," Hogan muttered.

LeBeau and Newkirk turned to Carter, puzzled.

"What happened, Andrew?" Newkirk asked Carter, laying a hand on his arm. Even Newkirk could only push away a bad feeling for so long.

"Well, a bolt worked itself loose on the Big Dipper. Four of the cars plunged to the ground. Four people died, and a bunch more were injured. Worst thing I ever saw," Carter said with a shudder.

The table went silent. Newkirk gripped Carter's arm harder, while LeBeau furrowed his brow. Kinch let out a worried whistle, while Olsen squirmed uncomfortably. Finally. Hogan spoke.

"I think I'd be afraid to ride after that," Hogan admitted. The other men nodded and chimed in: "Oh, me too." "Cor, no doubt." "Quel dommage."

"Oh, I'm not afraid, guys, and you wouldn't be either," Carter said. "I mean, the odds are really low for something like that to happen, and anyway, once you've parachuted into enemy territory, there's not much left to be scared of, is there? It just kind of sucked the joy out of riding a roller coaster, once I saw those poor people on the ground."

Carter's doleful expression wasn't meant as a rebuke, but it worked as one anyway. Hogan's enthusiasm for a boyhood pursuit suddenly seemed awfully indulgent to him. He'd never felt small in Carter's presence, but there was a first time for everything, and as he looked around the table at his men, he knew he wasn't alone.

 **Notes:** Sorry, that ending was a bit of a downer, but I'm not sure where else I could have gone with it. This question was asked and answered in the "Which of Our Heroes" thread in the Stalag XIII-C Forum on February 25, 2015. My original response was _: "_ _It's Carter. He was an 11 year old in the summer of 1930 when he was visiting his big-city relatives in Omaha. They were in Krug Park on the day of what was then the worst amusement park accident in U.S. history. A bolt worked itself loose on the Big Dipper roller coaster, sending four cars plunging to the ground. Four people died and 17 were injured. (True incident.)"_ _ **Quel dommage**_ _means "what a pity."_


	6. LeBeau et Le Lapin Bleu

**Question by : Tiny1217**

 **Who would work at the "Ice Cream Capital of the World," the Blue Bunny factory and ice cream parlor in LeMars, Iowa?**

 _(It was started in 1935, and now produces more ice cream than anywhere else on the planet!)_

 **LeBeau et Le Lapin Bleu**

 _ **March 1951, in North America**_

"I have no idea how I ended up here," Louis LeBeau was explaining to an efficient young gate agent at Idlewild International Airport in New York. "I was boarding a flight to attend a meeting in Le Mans after being on my feet all day, and the next thing I knew we were stopping for fuel in Newfoundland!"

His trans-Atlantic mystery journey had already taken 14 hours, and LeBeau was getting a tad exasperated. Plus his chances of winning that lucrative catering assignment at the World Sportscar Championship in Le Mans were slipping away.

"Le Mans, Le Mans," the gate agent said, reviewing the passenger's boarding pass thoughtfully. "Oh, I see the problem, Sir. Your ticket says 'Le Mars!' Perhaps you made a little mistake in pronunciation," she added cheerfully.

"I am French. I always pronounce words perfectly," LeBeau huffed. "And please do not sound the 's' at the end of Le Mans and Le Mars. It's crude."

"I'll try to remember that, Sir," the young woman – her badge said "Peggy" - said with a fetching smile. LeBeau's heart softened, as it always did in the presence of an attractive young woman, and he suppressed the urge to stalk off. He allowed her to continue.

"Well, Sir, your flight to Le Mars is leaving in … 20 minutes. If you hurry, you can just make it. Gate 13," she said, pointing down the corridor.

"Oh, _pour l'amour de …_ Gate 13. Yes, that makes complete sense," LeBeau muttered. "Please, Mademoiselle, do I not have any other options?"

"Well, Sir, I'm afraid your ticket is booked through to Le Mars, Iowa. So my suggestion is that you complete your journey and sort it out when you reach your destination," Peggy replied.

"But what's in Le Mars?" LeBeau asked plaintively.

"Oh, Sir, I think you'll love it! It's the ice cream capital of the world! I'm so sorry, but we have passengers waiting to board for the return flight to Paris. Your gate's just down there," Peggy dismissed LeBeau with a smile and a brisk wave and looked past him to the man behind him in line. "Next!"

"Just take me back to Paris!" LeBeau pleaded.

"I'm afraid I can't allow that, Sir. FAA regulations, and anyway, the flight is full. No, you must continue your flight," she said firmly, waving again.

LeBeau sighed, hefted his carry-on bag over his shoulder, and headed to the corridor. No point making a fuss, he thought. It sure would be nice if Colonel Hogan would turn up right now with a plan to get him out of this, but it didn't seem likely.

 **H=H=H=H=H**

A few minutes later, LeBeau was on the aircraft and settling into his aisle seat with evident irritation, the kind that comes from no sleep, no food, no friends and no luck. Blimey, he thought, channeling his most irritable inner voice. Why did he have to sit next to the round-faced, bright-eyed man in the window seat? He looked like a talker, and that was the last thing LeBeau needed. And why, oh, why did that man have to turn, smile, and ask, "Do you make this trip often?"

What an inane question, LeBeau thought to himself. "Never," he grunted. Then he steadied himself, remembering his manners and reminding himself that he was, after all, French and therefore debonair. He looked up to his companion with a weak smile. "It is my first time. How long a flight is it?"

"Well," the cheerful fellow responded, "we have layovers in Cincinnati, St. Louis, and Sioux City. About eight hours end to end."

"WHAT?" LeBeau responded, clutching his chest. It was a little louder than he intended, but seriously. Exactly how big WAS this country, anyway? The stewardess came rushing down the aisle, fluttering with worry. She clasped LeBeau's arm and crouched at his side.

"Are you all right, Sir? Do you need medical intervention?" she asked anxiously.

"No… no… it's just… I spent 14 hours on a flight from Paris to New York and I'm very tired. How far is it to Le Mars?"

The pretty stewardess stood, smoothed her skirt, and smiled dazzlingly. "Oh, only 1,300 miles, Sir."

LeBeau did the math in his head. That would be a mere 2,100 kilometers. Just like a day trip from Paris to Marrakech. He slumped in his his seat and muttered, "Mon Dieu, I hope you have something decent to eat on this flight."

The jolly man in the next seat piped right up. "Alice, dear, please bring a dish of Blue Bunny for my friend here."

H=H=H=H=H

We are friends now, are we? Le Beau thought. But he was grateful for the consideration. He wasn't sure about blue food, and it struck him that Americans were oddly affectionate in how they talked about their game meats, but a bit of _lapin a la coquette_ or something like it would really hit the spot before takeoff.

LeBeau turned to his neighbor and held out his hand. "Monsieur, I am Louis LeBeau. I work in Paris as a chef and I seem to have taken a wrong turn today. I am very thankful for you kindness."

His seat-mate smiled and shook LeBeau's hand. "Fred Wells. We have something in common. I'm a food business man myself-an ice cream maker."

Le Beau bit off a riposte. Ice cream – feh, as his grandmother would say. You call that food? But then Alice the stewardess returned, and placed glass dishes of chocolate, vanilla and strawberry ice cream before Le Beau and Wells. It looked so rich and creamy and tempting.

"Neapolitan," Wells said. "Dig in."

Le Beau hesitantly took a taste… and then another… and then another. He demolished the dish and shyly glanced at Mr. Wells, who understood immediately and beckoned Alice over. "Another dish. This time, perhaps … mint chocolate chip?" LeBeau nodded and Alice scurried off.

By the time the flight was in the air, the conversation had grown animated, thanks no doubt in part to all that sugar hitting an empty stomach. LeBeau was pulsing with ideas. Perhaps some cinnamon to draw out the chocolate's deeper tones. Blueberries – you couldn't go wrong with those. More strawberry, perhaps even a rich pureed ribbon of it, not fully blended, but running through the ice cream to let you know the fruit was real. Pistachio. Coffee. Caramel – salted, of course! Had Mr. Wells ever thought of toasted almonds instead of walnuts?

By the time Louis LeBeau landed in LeMars, Iowa, arm in arm with ice cream maker extraordinaire Fred Wells, a beautiful partnership had been born. It only got better when Fred introduced LeBeau to his charming and intelligent daughter, Mary Lou. LeBeau had fallen hard for Blue Bunny ice cream and everything about it. You could even say he was licked.

 **Author's Note:** This question was asked in the "Which of Our Heroes" thread in Stalag XIII-C on Feb. 24, 2015, and answered the next day. My original response was a little more detailed (below), but it has already been explored in a fun story by Tiny1217 called "Le Lapin Bleu." Oh, and yes, Fred Wells founded Blue Bunny Ice Cream in the 1930s.

 _LeBeau, tricked by the French name, accidentally boards a flight to LeMars instead of LeMans. Upon arrival, he is aided by and ultimately falls in love with a local girl. Unable to afford a return ticket to the City of Love, he settles into a job at the best food factory in town, Blue Bunny, which he insists on calling Le Lapin Bleu. Over time, he develops a mad passion for ice cream making and rises in the company ranks. He retires as CEO in 1963 and takes on the honorary role of European ambassador for Blue Bunny products, based in Paris, of course. After his long sojourn in the Midwest he returns home with his wife Mary Lou, his children Sabine, Martine, Maxine, and Jethro, and an insatiable craving for corn dogs and other Midwestern delicacies._


	7. Just a Little Yarn

**Question by: Kamkats**

" **Which of our heroes would be a closet knitter? I'll be amazed if it isn't Carter!"**

 **Chapter 7: Just a Little Yarn**

"Hold it taut, Carter," Corporal Peter Newkirk said quietly. "There you go." He wrapped the end of the blue yarn around his fingers and started winding it into a ball. Newkirk and Sergeant Andrew Carter were working efficiently, facing each other as they straddled a bench outside Barracks 2 on a cold but sunny December day.

The two men were into the rhythm of their task, ignoring the American football game and the chatter around them. Carter wanted socks. Newkirk could use socks too, and he was under strict orders from Colonel Hogan to keep his hands busy. Cigarette supplies had dwindled to almost nothing; he was down to two a day and was becoming a pest.

"We're lucky to have a nice big hank of yarn like this one," Newkirk said. "Hands apart, Carter, and hold it just tight enough, like that. I think we can get …ooh, at least six balls of yarn, so that'll be six pairs of socks." He looked down at Carter's feet. "Well, maybe only five if we have to make a pair for you. Unless there's another Red Cross shipment coming," he deadpanned. "God willing," he added, his mind suddenly returning to the shortage of fags.

"Your feet are bigger than mine," Carter jibed back. Newkirk grinned and kept winding. "Anyway, it's good timing," Carter continued. "I can smell snow."

Newkirk shook his head. "How can you bloody well 'smell' snow, Carter? I'll never understand what that means."

"Oh, it's easy, pal," Carter replied. "You see, the cold weather slows down molecular activity. So what's really happening is that you can't smell other smells, like dirty socks and sweat and pine trees and stuff…"

Carter was off and running, explicating the science of precipitation. Newkirk rolled his eyes out of habit, though he found Carter's babble oddly soothing and conducive to their trance-like work. He nodded along as Carter prattled on. "It's really the lack of the usual smells, not exactly the snow. But then there's the humidity, which you CAN smell…"

Another ball of yarn was gaining mass nicely when Newkirk spotted a pair of ruffians from Barracks 7 approaching. "Oh, blimey," he said. "Donnelly and Browning." Newkirk and Carter had tangled with Stalag 13's resident louts before. They both sighed.

"Hey, look, Donnelly," Browning was saying as he approached the bench where Newkirk and Carter were working. "It's the knitting club." He addressed the residents of Barracks 2: "Lovely afternoon, ladies."

Newkirk and Carter didn't even look up. That was Donnelly's cue to chime in. He moved in closer and leaned over Newkirk's shoulder, taking the ball of yarn and making a show of examining it before returning it and giving him a push at the shoulder. Newkirk never even flinched.

"You're going to make some lucky guy a terrific little wife someday, Newkirk," Donnelly said. "Sewing, knitting – what else can you do?" He stepped back and waited for an explosion.

Carter was ready to spring to his feet and figured a nicotine-deprived Newkirk would be provoked into a reaction. Instead, he watched as Newkirk leaned back, looked Donnelly up and down, tsk-tsked, and returned to his work.

Donnelly looked a little unnerved by the silent treatment. "What?" Donnelly said menacingly. "What else can you do?"

Newkirk looked up and smiled. "I can measure you for a coffin just by looking at you," he said evenly. "It's the tailor's art, you see. You're… hmm. I'd say a 42-long. Bit thick through the waist, but not to worry. We can cover that up with a half-lid." He tilted his head and nodded approvingly as he visualized the funeral scene.

Donnelly was a fist guy, not a brain guy, and he started to sputter. What the heck had he stumbled into? He wanted a fight, not an argument.

"You're crazy, Newkirk, you know that? Crazy!" he intoned nasally. Confusion was written on his dimwitted face as Browning started to tug him away.

"Yes, I am, so don't tempt me," Newkirk said with a wave of his hand. "I haven't had a cigarette in four hours and I think you'll find I'm quite handy with a lot of things, including a tape measure, a saw and nails. Now, go on, you lot, and get lost before I have to sic Carter here on you. He's got knitting needles and he's not afraid to use them."

Carter chimed in enthusiastically. "Yeah, I could use them on your Adam's apple… your eyeballs… your jugular… your scro…" he was saying with a goofy grin as Donnelly and Browning scurried off.

Carter and Newkirk looked at each other and smirked. Newkirk shook his head, and softly said, "I can't believe you said that. No, I can't believe you thought that." Carter smiled amiably and shrugged, and the men went on with their work.

"Hey Newkirk," Carter finally said. "Why can you do this stuff, anyway?

"What 'stuff,' Carter?" Newkirk replied. "Care to be more specific?" Blimey, the English language had lost some of its precision on its way to the colonies, hadn't it?

"Sewing and knitting," Carter said. "I mean… most guys …. At least where I come from … well, most guys don't." His ears were turning pink as he posed the question, knowing it wasn't entirely polite.

"Cor, Carter, now you sound like bleeding Donnelly," Newkirk replied. He couldn't hide his irritation. Peter Newkirk was good with his hands, and wasn't used to having his masculinity questioned, and needed a cigarette NOW. But he knew as well as anyone that most men did not, in fact, sew or knit.

"Self-defense, Andrew," Newkirk finally offered grudgingly. "Simple as that."

It was Carter's turn to look confused, though he wore the expression with an appearance of inquisitiveness, not the sheer stupidity that Donnelly imbued it with. Newkirk understood. His mood softened, and he continued.

"What I mean is, if I wanted nice clothes, I had to learn to mend them and make them, didn't I? And I didn't want to go about in rags, so I learned," Newkirk said quietly, his head down as he continued to work. Then he looked up at Carter and put the latest ball of yarn down.

"My mum always said, 'We might be poor, but we're not destitute.' She had a lot of us to take care of, mate," Newkirk continued. "I learned to help out when I was young. First mending clothes, ironing them, taking a hem up or down. Eventually I learned to cut and tailor a proper suit. Like I said, self-defense." Explanation over, he dipped his head back down and resumed his handwork.

Carter studied his friend. Newkirk rarely revealed much about his life, and Carter was hesitant to prod, but he was curious. Carter himself had grown up in the lean years of the Great Depression and he understood need. His family certainly wasn't well off. His clothes were nothing fancy, but once he started school they were mostly store-bought, arriving by parcel post from the Montgomery Ward catalogue, except for the occasional home-stitched shirt. He had a few hand-me-downs from neighbors, and if he ripped a hole in his knees, his mom fixed it. The Carters had their worries, but having meals on the table or clothes to wear weren't among them.

Finally, Carter ventured another question. "Defense against what?" he asked.

Carter couldn't see it, but at that simple query, Newkirk's mind swam with memories of growing up poor in the East End. The judgments. The comments. The assumptions. Accepting handouts and enduring more than a few nights of gnawing hunger. He shook his head and could feel his face flush.

"Defense against … well, being helpless, I suppose," Newkirk replied. "'Heaven helps them what helps themselves,' my mum always said." Peter Newkirk wasn't a religious man, but he felt sure there was some truth in that aphorism. After all, his mum was a wise woman, he thought, feeling a little surge of pride in his upbringing. Poor or not, his family was respectable. Mostly. His mum tried, anyway, and no one could take that from him.

Carter came to the end of the hank of blue yarn as Newkirk wound up the ball. "Right-o, that's six," Newkirk said cheerfully. "We're all ready to start making them socks. Yours first, mate?" he asked Carter. "The pattern's pretty easy—you'll pick it up fast." He stood up, gathered the balls of yarn in the crook of one arm, and flung the other arm around Carter as they headed into the barracks to get started on their project.

"That'd be great, Newkirk. My big toe is sticking out of the ones I've got, and the heel's worn pretty thin too," Carter said. "I'm already developing some blisters. You know, I read one time that if you get blisters, they can get pretty bad, maybe even blood poisoning, 'cause…"

Carter suddenly stopped as he noticed something dangling from the hand over his shoulder. "Hey, what's that?"

Newkirk pulled his arm back as he pushed open the barracks door and grinned broadly. "What, these? Just some smokes for us, Carter. Donnelly'll never miss them."

 **H=H=H=H=H**

 **Author's Note:** Donnelly and assorted other louts from Barracks 7 are characters from my work-in-progress, "Poker Face." This question was asked and answered on Feb. 27, 2015. My original response:

" _Surprise, it's Newkirk! We've seen Carter trying to darn his socks, and he's not too good at it. Newkirk, on the other hand, is very good with his hands. He needs something to keep him from fidgeting so much. And when he tries to quit smoking (which doesn't happen too often, admittedly) he takes up knitting. Plus, he's practical. If he wants socks, he's going to knit them. My theory is that's how he learned to sew - he wanted to look good, so he figured out how to make clothes. (In this, I am inspired by a soldier-friend of my dad's who is now in his 80s and can both sew and knit. As he told me once, he grew up poor and he learned how in self-defense. If he wanted decent clothes, he had to make them.) By the way, soldiers recuperating in field hospitals in both world wars (and maybe since) were often encouraged to knit as a way to keep busy and productive. The British soldiers have a proud tradition of quilting and knitting."_


	8. Reykjavik or Bust

**Question by: Tiny1217**

 **Who would take a vacation to Iceland?**

 **Reykjavik or Bust**

 _ **(February 11, 1949. Via U.S. Air Mail)**_

Hi Peter,

Just wondering: Have you ever been to Iceland? Because I'm going in July, and it might be really fun to get together there. It's been a year since I saw you in London, and it would be a short hop for you on BOAC. You can share my room. What do you think?

Your friend,

Andrew Carter

 _ **(February 19, 1949. Via Royal Telegram)**_

Carter,

Are you mad? What's in Iceland?

P. Newkirk

 _ **(February 20, 1949, Via U.S. Air Mail)**_

Hi Peter,

You're in luck, buddy! I'm leading my Geology 201 students on a tour focusing on volcanology and seismology, and I'm finishing up the student-travel brochure right now.

We're going to visit the Golden Circle of Geysers. One of the best-known attractions is Strokkur, which means "The Churn." Neat, right? It erupts every 10 minutes and shoots boiling water 100 feet into the air. Boom! The whole area is a geothermal park sitting on top of a vast boiling cauldron! We'll see belching sulfurous mud pots of unusual colors, hissing steam vents, hot and cold springs, warm streams, and primitive plants.

Come on, Peter. How can you say no?

Your pal,

Andrew

 _ **(March 1, 1949, Via Royal Air Mail)**_

Carter,

Easy. N-O. You've gone 'round the bend, mate. I can spend my free time in a nice cozy pub in London and observe all the belching I want, at a safe distance from hissing steam and boiling cauldrons. And isn't sulphur that yellow rubbish what smells like rotten eggs? I inhaled enough of that poison in your lab in Stalag 13, thank you very much. It's spelt with a "ph," by the way.

Enjoy the trip, mate. Let me know when you're going to Spain or Hawaii, would you?

P. Newkirk

 _ **(March 14, 1949, Via Western Union Telegram)**_

Peter,

Too bad. I was hoping we would try the brennivín together.

Andrew

 _ **(March 15, 1949. Via Royal Telegram)**_

Carter,

All right. I'll bite. What's brennivín? This better be good.

P. Newkirk

 _ **(March 17, 1949. Via U.S. Air Mail)**_

Hi Pete,

Brennivín means burning wine! It's a strong, clear schnapps. It's part of Iceland's rich cultural heritage, so naturally we will need to sample it. Probably every night, actually.

Also, we'll be doing some ethnology studies. For credit, of course. It's interesting to note that the women of Iceland are overwhelmingly blonde, and we'll take a deeper look at the reasons. I realize we're both married men and all, but this is a scientific study tour, so we'll need to take notes. Of course, our University of North Dakota co-eds will include some brunettes and redheads. I hope the presence of these outliers won't throw our studies off too badly.

Andrew

 _ **(March 19, 1949. Via Royal Telegram)**_

Andrew,

Co-eds? I don't know what that means, but I'm warming up to this idea of yours. What's the food like? My stomach can't take anything rich.

P. Newkirk

PS, "Liars" is with an "a," not an "e." I'll never understand your American bloody English. What's an outliar? These "co-eds" must be rather naughty if they've got so much to lie about.

 _ **(March 21, 1949. Via Western Union Telegram)**_

Peter,

Oh, how bad could the food be? You've had bouillabaisse.

I'll explain outliers when I see you. Please book your tickets at least 90 days before we arrive in Iceland on the evening of July 19.

Andrew

 _ **(April 17, 1949. Via Royal Telegram)**_

Andrew,

It was a battle, but Rita finally agreed that I needed a little time with me old mate. I'm booked on BOAC Flight 72, arriving every other day at 2 pm. I'll meet you at the Hotel Borg in Reykjavik on July 19.

Cheers,  
Peter

 _ **(July 26, 1949. A long distance call from Reykjavik to Paris)**_

Louis? This is Peter. Yes, Pierre.

Fine, fine. Rita's fine. The kids are fine.

Where am I? Well, the sign says Reykjavik General Hospital.

Yes, in Iceland.

Can you come get me? Please, little mate?

No, don't worry. I'm not bleeding. Not externally, anyway. God only knows about my insides.

Well, yes, I do need you.

Yes, now. They won't let me go home alone.

The doctors, that's who.

I didn't do anything! I swear it's not my fault! I was here with Carter!

Well, it's complicated, Louis.

Yes, I know you've heard that before.

Oh, come on. Let me explain.

You see, Andrew and I found ourselves in a bit of a sticky wicket on our collegiate geothermal energy study tour.

Oh, yes, I learned a lot. I learned that I can't eat the local cuisine, for one thing.

Andrew? Oh, he's out of hospital already. Heading home to North Dakota. With the "co-eds," whatever that means.

Believe me, I wanted to kill him myself. I can't believe his consumption of the local putrefied shark didn't do the trick for me.

Me? I'm pretty sure it was the pickled ram's testicles that landed me in hospital. Or possibly the singed sheep's head jam.

Well, yes, it is bloody disgusting. I'm glad you agree. You know I've always had a weak stomach.

No, mate. It was definitely, definitely NOT the brennivín. That stuff went down like liquid gold.

Oh, come on. Please, Louis?

No, YOU call Rita. I'm afraid. She told me I'd be sorry if I went without her.

Please, little mate?

Yes, I apologize for everything I ever said about your cooking.

Yes, I will try the fish stew again. Once the doctors clear me to take solids.

Ah, merci, Louis. You're a real china. Did I ever tell you you're my best mate ever?

No, definitely NOT Carter. He just gets me into trouble.

You can get away from the restaurant? All right then.

Arriving tomorrow? That would be grand, mate.

Oh, one more thing. When you take me home, do you mind telling Rita my black eye came from a spelunking injury and NOT from a blonde with a wicked right hook?

 _ **(August 7, 1949. Via U.S. Air Mail)**_

Peter,

Wow, that was sure a fun trip to Iceland! Hey, there's this amazing volcano in Costa Rica called Arenal. Wanna go?

Andrew

 **H=H=H=H=H**

 **Author's note:** This question was asked and answered on March 1, 2015. My original answer was: _"Carter would take a vacation in Iceland because he's heard about those exploding geysers and HAS to see them go boom! Actually, I could see geothermal energy holding great fascination for him, and maybe he'd even lead a university study group there. Professor Carter would have a hard time containing his joy at those explosions!"_

Also, a **co-ed** is an anachronistic term for a female student at a North American university that accepts both men and women (i.e., is "co-educational.) It's a fine example of normative language, in which men pursuing an education is the norm and women pursuing an education is the aberration. All the details about the food are real, I'm disturbed to say. And the Hotel Borg is the oldest luxury hotel in Iceland.

My interest in this topic was piqued by the fact that my parents actually lived in Iceland in the 1950s.


	9. A Sticky Situation

**Question by: Tuttle 4077**

 **Which of our intrepid heroes would have a secret love for thrills (the purple gum that tastes like soap)? Or not so secret. Have you ever noticed how people who like thrills always try to share them with other people? Yuck.**

 **A Sticky Situation**

It was 11 am on a warm spring day, and mail call in Barracks 2 was just winding down. Nearly every man had received a letter or two, and a lucky few had small parcels. Sergeant Brian Olsen was one of them.

His five closest friends congregated to watch him unwrap it. Receiving a parcel from family or friends was always an important occasion, and opening one was an act that demanded reverence. Even if the contents turned out to be socks and underwear, a parcel was a visible manifestation of love sent from home.

Olsen sliced into his parcel and elevated the first two items for all to see. "New shorts," he said, to a round of applause.

"Good, the old ones can go straight on the flame, then," Newkirk chimed in.

"Let's not and say we did, OK?" Kinch said. "I'm not going to be able to shake the idea of café au caleçon." LeBeau, and no one else, snickered.

"Handkerchiefs," Olsen said. "Cigarettes. Soap. The Yankees season schedule. Oh, man, what have we here?" As he stared into the bottom of the parcel, a broad smiled crossed his face. "Thrills!" he said.

"What is it Olsen? Maybe a new baseball? We've just about worn the cover off the old one," Carter said.

"It's gotta be _The Racing Form_!" Garlotti said. "Lemme at it!"

"Lads, I don't think those things quite measure up as 'thrills' for a man of the world like Olsen here," Newkirk opined. He leaned into Olsen. "Must be another copy of _Beauty Parade_ or _Eyeful_ , eh mate? I'll give you a pack of fags to be next on the list." He winked and nodded knowingly, stopping just short of an actual leer.

"I don't know what kind of stuff your mom sends you, Newkirk, but my mom keeps it clean," Olsen said. "Gotta wait for my Uncle Olaf to send _that_. No, it's really Thrills. Five whole packs." He reached in the parcel and extracted a clutch of purple and yellow paper envelopes.

Carter was the first to pick an envelope out of his hand and peer closely. "Hey, it looks like gum!" he said. "Never heard of this one."

"It's Canadian. See, we used to spend our summers up on the U.P. in Michigan with the Norwegian side of the family. My dad would usually take us camping for a week in Canada. Kind of got hooked on this gum," Olsen said.

"U.P.?" LeBeau asked? " _Qu'est ce que c'est_?"

"Oo-Pay," Kinch translated for LeBeau's benefit. "The Upper Peninsula of Michigan," he continued, adding agreeably, "Nice place in the summer. Forests, wildlife, three of the Great Lakes. There are lots of French Canadiens there, LeBeau." Kinch had spent a couple of summers there—working, of course. Negroes didn't vacation in the U.P. When Kinch was a boy, his only vacations were occasional trips down south to Louisiana to stay with his Grandma outside Bogalusa.

"Swedes and Finns too," Olsen said as he took the envelope back from Carter. "There was this girl, Aimo Karvonen. Well, remind me to tell you about her later, guys."

Five heads nodded eagerly. Olsen opened the envelope and offered Carter a piece of gum, then passed it around to the others. "Try it. It's really good!" he said, popping two pieces in his mouth and chewing with a beatific expression.

LeBeau, willing to try anything of a gastronomical nature that had even the slightest French association, had been quick to sample the gum, and was the first to back away from the table. Newkirk watched as his little mate withdrew the wad of gum from his mouth, made a disgusted face, and sneaked it into an ash can.

"Come on, Newkirk, you haven't tried it yet," Olsen prodded. "Want one?"

"Um, no thanks, Olsen. You know, we don't really have chewing gum in Britain," Newkirk demurrred. "I mean, even putting boiled sweets in your mouth out in public, well… it's not really the done thing."

"Well, it wouldn't do you any harm. I mean, you smoke like a chimney. It'll freshen your breath," Olsen said. He hadn't noticed the peculiar faces that Garlotti, Kinch, and Carter were all making.

Newkirk ignored the insult. "Sorry, mate. It's just that my teeth ache a bit," Newkirk said as LeBeau signaled frantically toward him, shaking his head while making a slashing gesture at the neck. Olsen shrugged as Newkirk retreated with a letter from his sister to the safety of his top bunk.

"What do you think, guys?" Olsen said cheerfully to the rest of the assembled. Garlotti, Carter, LeBeau, and Kinch nodded courteously, Finally, Carter spoke up.

"Uh, well, it's interesting, Olsen," Carter said. "And it was really nice of you to share it! Only, well, I noticed there was some soap in your parcel. Do you think maybe your gum absorbed some of the soap odor from being in transit? Not that it's bad or anything, it's kind of interesting, but…"

Olsen looked baffled. He chewed thoughtfully, adding another piece to pep up the flavor. "No," he said. "Nosiree. It tastes just right to me!"

"It tastes HORRIBLE," Garlotti said, depositing the gum into his hand. "It's like that rosewater gelato that my Nonna serves to her lady friends at her Rosary meeting." He gagged and reached for the coffee pot.

"That coffee's been sitting out for three hours," LeBeau warned him.

"Doesn't matter," Garlotti said. LeBeau shrugged. He couldn't argue that point. As Garlotti made a scene at the stove, Kinch slipped the gum out of his mouth and stuck it under the table, promising himself he'd scrape it off later.

"What about you, Kinch? Like it? You're a Michigan guy," Olsen said.

"It's unique," Kinch responded. "I just have this bad habit with gum. I constantly swallow it," he added, looking apologetic.

"Oh, there's plenty more. Have a bunch," Olsen replied.

Kinch took a whole packet and stuck it in his pocket. "I'll save it for later," he said with a smile, knowing he was doing a public service by taking it out of circulation.

Just then, Colonel Hogan returned to the barracks after his latest visit to press the Kommandant for more hot water and white bread.

"Colonel, I've got something I want you to try!" Olsen said cheerfully. But Newkirk stopped him before he could bestow his gift on their unsuspecting commanding officer.

"Guv, you've got a parcel from home," Newkirk said. He pointed below him to Carter's bunk.

"Fantastic!" Hogan said. He brought it to the table and set it down with a sigh. "I guess you'll all want to see what I got, huh?" he said with a grin.

"Please, Sir!" the men said in near-unison.

"All righty," Hogan began. Newkirk handed down his pencil sharpener, and Hogan used it to cut into the parcel neatly.

"A can of coffee—the good stuff," Hogan said. "Razor blades. Brylcreem. A towel. Foot powder. Hey—I think mom's got me confused with my brother Jim. He's the one in the infantry. Fly-boys don't march," Hogan grinned, then dug deeper. "Hershey's chocolate. Ovaltine. Nice." Then he reached into the bottom of the box. "Oh, Mom really knows what I like," he said, beaming.

"What is it, Sir?" Kinch asked.

"Blackjack chewing gum!" Hogan said.

"What, the one that tastes like licorice?" Olsen said in horror. "That's disgusting, Sir!"

Hogan shrugged and handed it around. "Anyone care for a try?"

Newkirk was the first to speak up. "You keep it, Guv. We're just happy to see _you_ so happy."

"Well, that's really nice of you, Newirk. I'll tell you what. I'll get Mom to send extras next time." He handed off the coffee to LeBeau, gathered up the rest of his possessions, and headed into his office for a nice long chew.

The silence was deafening. Newkirk broke it. "Olsen?" he said.

"Yeah, Newkirk?"

"Tell us about that Finnish bird. Aimo, you said?"

 **H=H=H=H=H**

 **Author's Note:** This question was asked on the "Which of Our Heroes Thread in the Forum on April 21, 2015, and answered on April 23. My original answer was:

 _I had to look up the gum, which turns out to be a Canadian phenomenon. And it even says right there on the box, "tastes like soap!" Our neighbors to the north sure have a quirky sense of humor. In the dead, dark days of my youth, we had gum here in the U.S. that tasted like violets, so I guess that's in the same category as Thrills, which technically tastes like rose water._

 _Olsen is the gum chewer, though why he'd take up a Canadian gum is beyond me! (Keep in mind that confectionaries were still by and large a local/regional business until the 1970s. That's why many of us can remember candies that we had in our childhood that wouldn't be familiar to others. Crawford's taffy, anyone?) The only other real possibilities would be Kinch or Carter, since back then, chewing gum was a North America habit, and not a well regarded one. ( I'd say doing so still marks you as North American in most of the world.) But I just can't see Kinch chewing gum - and I don't think Carter would be able to shut up long enough to chew. Hogan would absolutely not chew gum._ (PS: I still have trouble seeing Hogan as a gum chewer, but for the sake of the story, I temporarily changed my mind! My grandmother used to give us Blackjack gum, and we used to politely decline and then go off and make barfing faces. Sometimes she'd bring us Clark's teaberry gum instead, which went over a LOT better.)


	10. It Was a Dark and Stormy Night

**Question posed by: Tirathon**

 **Which of our heroes would be most likely to write Harlequin romances?**

 **Chapter 10: It Was a Dark and Stormy Night in the Communications Hut**

A sudden whoosh of cold night air sent a sheaf of papers scattering from Sergeant Kinchloe's radio table in the tunnels below Stalag 13. Corporal Newkirk was the first of the three men in black to drop into the tunnel, and thus was the first to see Kinch scrambling to gather up a No. 2 pencil and six or seven loose pages from the floor of the communications room.

Kinch turned and greeted Newkirk as he quickly buried the papers under his radio handbook. "How'd it go tonight, Newkirk?" he asked casually.

"Piece of cake," Newkirk replied, looking past Kinch to the pile of pages he had slipped from view. If there was one thing Peter Newkirk recognized on sight, it was sneaky behavior. "What you got there, Kinch?" he inquired.

"Oh, just some letters," Kinch said dismissively as Colonel Hogan and Corporal LeBeau rounded the corner into the communications room. Kinch swiveled around on his stool to greet them.

"You can let London know we accomplished the mission," Hogan told Kinch. "Both spans of the bridge came down like a deck of cards, and right on time. The munitions train won't be making that crossing tonight. Too bad Carter had to miss it."

"That cold's knocked him for a loop," Kinch said. "You'll have to tell all about it in the morning, complete with sound effects," he added, trying to keep his tone light-hearted even though he wanted nothing more than for everyone to leave. Behind him, he could hear Newkirk shuffling papers, and the sound was making him nervous.

Hogan and LeBeau disappeared briefly, then reappeared in their uniforms. "Time to get some rest," LeBeau said. "It's been a long day, and we must have hiked eight kilometers each way," he added, yawning. He ascended the ladder, with Hogan waiting at the base to begin climbing.

"More like five," Hogan said, shaking his head as he watched the figure of LeBeau disappear above him. "You should be able to wrap up soon, Kinch," he added before he reached up to grab a rung. "Just get that transmission off to London and then hit the sack. What's keeping you, Newkirk?"

"I'll be just a tick, Guv," Newkirk replied. "Need a moment to check on some of the uniforms for tomorrow's raid."

"Tomorrow can wait. Get changed, wash up, and get upstairs," Hogan said firmly. "We're all going to be a mess in the morning if we don't get our beauty sleep," he added with a wide grin, then turned to climb.

"Right-o, Sir," Newkirk replied. He had one hand resting on the radio table, fiddling with the edges of the papers Kinch had so carefully hidden from view. As soon as Hogan was out of sight, he turned to stare down Kinch.

In one swift motion, Newkirk grabbed up all the loose pages, which were crammed to the edges with Kinch's careful penmanship. He squinted at the first page. _"The Courtesan and the Colonel_? Blimey, what's that, Kinch?" Newkirk said with a glint in his eye. "It sounds rather naughty."

A scarlet flush came over Kinch's cheeks. "Give it back, Newkirk," he said menacingly. "I mean it."

"Oo-hoo, struck a nerve, have we?" Newkirk chortled as he shoved the papers into the front of his trousers. "Well, I've finished making dirty drawings in the margins of our copy of _Mein Kampf_. I could use something new to illustrate. So if you want your little story back, you're going to have to come and get it." He dodged away from the radio table as Kinch lunged toward him, chasing him around the table.

But just as Kinch was on the verge of cornering Newkirk, a humming tone on the radio beckoned him back to his work. As Kinch donned his headset, he shook a fist at the Englishman and pointed him to a chair.

Newkirk smiled insolently, then made an elaborate show of withdrawing the papers from where he had tucked them. He settled into the chair, arranged the papers to his satisfaction, and began to read, pursing his lips and peering down at the writing. Of course, he could have taken off with the manuscript, such as it was, but Peter Newkirk was no fool. Kinch had five inches and at least three stone on him, and there was no way to hide from him in camp. Anyway, Newkirk was simply enjoying having the upper hand psychologically. No need to exert himself unnecessarily.

Newkirk mostly kept quiet while Kinch was on the radio to London, flipping through the pages, oohing and ahhing just a bit, and looking over now and then to smile and nod agreeably at the Sergeant. Finally, Kinch whipped off the headset and stood with his hands on his hips.

"That's mine, Newkirk. Give it back to me," he demanded.

"What's the rush? This is rather good," Newkirk said. "I like the bit where the Colonel is … what's the word you used? Oh, thrusting. Or was it throbbing? And then a bit of reveling and romping– good stuff, that. Nice strong verbs." He grinned like a cat, then suddenly looked sober. "What the bloody hell are you doing, mate?"

Kinch was looking down and digging the toe of his boot into the dirt floor. "Just a little creative writing, Newkirk."

"I can see that," Newkirk said, thumbing through the pages again. "Very creative indeed." He looked back at Kinch. "Is there something you want to tell me, mate? You can talk to old Newkirk. What you say won't leave this room, or dungeon, I suppose." He looked absolutely earnest.

Kinch sat down heavily on his stool, looking utterly resigned.

"OK, you caught me. I'm writing a romance novel. Are you happy?" Kinch said. All anger had drained away; what remained was embarrassment and a touch of irritation at having to explain his hobby to Newkirk, of all people.

"What's a bloody romance novel?" Newkirk said. "This is … well, this is just flowery rubbish, this is. How can you write about our Guv that way? Doing such things with that courtesan? What's a courtesan anyway?"

"Uh, a courtesan is kind of an escort or a mistress. And a romance novel is escapist fiction for women. You'd be amazed at how popular romance is," Kinch said. "And … I don't know, Newkirk. It just gets so boring down here, sitting by the radio, listening to you guys coming back with all your tales of adventure. And the Colonel … well, he's a much luckier guy than any of us, isn't he?"

"That he is," Newkirk had to admit. "It's bloody hard to take. Any red-blooded man would be a bit jealous. I know I am. But you, Kinch. You're so … ruddy unflappable."

"Believe me, Newkirk, I'm flappable. Writing helps me deal with the fact that I never get out, and I never get near a woman, you know?"

"All right, I can see that. But what … what were you going to DO with it?" Newkirk asked. "You said it was a novel?"

"Oh, yeah. Women lap this stuff up!" Kinch said. "There's this publishing house in London called Mills & Boon and they publish eight to 10 new romance novels a month. I figured I'd finish up my manuscript and, uh, find a way to get it to them."

Newkirk gave him a quizzical look. "Are you telling me you're going to try to send this… narrative, for lack of a better word … to a publisher in London? What, in our official packets to London? You're mad. HQ will go bonkers if they see this. It's a breach of security. And it's just not done, mate. This is the Guv you're writing about."

"It's not Colonel Hogan! It's Colonel Drake Harrington! He's an original character," Kinch protested.

"Drake—my stars, that's a very romantic name," Newkirk replied. "But look at this description, mate." He peered at an ink-blotted page and read dramatically, "His hair was black and slick, framing his head in airy swoops, and the eyes that stared back at her were pools of melted chocolate, small but penetrating."

Newkirk put down the page. "That's our Colonel, mate. I'd know him anywhere. Good thing you set the action in the Crimean War or it would have been a dead giveaway, especially the part where he wrestles a tiger," he added, rolling his eyes for emphasis. Whether Newkirk's eye-roll was a commentary on the writing or the specific Tiger he had in mind was anybody's guess.

Kinch sighed. "All right. OK. It was a dumb idea. Maybe I need to disguise the characters a little better. Maybe I'll have to wait until after the war to publish it."

"But you still haven't told me why," Newkirk persisted. "Why are you so bloody eager to send it to a publishing house?"

"I don't know, Newkirk," Kinch said wearily. "Probably because fanfiction hasn't been invented yet. And I guess it'd be a feather in my cap to be a published author. Having my work accepted would really mean something. Mills & Boon pays £100 for an accepted manuscript."

"A hundred quid?" Newkirk asked. That got his attention.

"That's right," Kinch said. "That's $400 American, Newkirk. It's big money."

"Hmm. This could be a nice little earner," Newkirk said thoughtfully. "How long does it take to write one of these romance novels, anyway?"

"I don't know—a month or two?" Kinch replied. Leave it to Newkirk to warm to an idea once he saw the commercial potential, he thought.

"Right-o," Newkirk said. "Well, look mate. I've got a better title for you. How about _Hold That Tiger_? Or _That's No Lady, That's My Spy_? Ooh, that one has a nice ring about it, doesn't it? How about _Cupid Comes to Stalag 13_? That's real winner, that is. Here's how I see our partnership working out: You concentrate on the writing, lad. I'll read everything and edit it and make sure we get noticed in the papers, and I think we could have a nice tidy business waiting for us after this war is over. We can do an entire series and end it with a bang-up book called…." His eyes scanned the ceiling. " _Rockets or Romance_..."

 **===THE END==**

 _ **Author's Note.**_ _I've been yearning for two things: A story where Kinch is neither noble nor perfect, and a way to work him into this series of vignettes based on the "Which of Our Heroes" forum thread so that I could call it a day. I wanted each of the five heroes to be the focus of at least one chapter, and Kinch's story was elusive._

 _I think I've accomplished my first goal by showing Kinch to be capable of being as sneaky, embarrassed and vaguely amatory as anyone else. As for working him into this story, I had to cheat big-time to finally mark it "complete" with each of the heroes properly represented. You see, every other chapter in this story was based on a response I wrote to the "Which of Our Heroes" thread. But I wrote absolutely nothing with any real story potential about Kinch, except for an impossibly complicated yarn about how he was abducted by Nordic pirates and forced to invent the cell phone. When your own crazy idea gives you a headache, you know it's not worth pursuing._

 _So, resolving to channel my inner Newkirk, I simply stole an idea. I considered dozens of possibilities, but the response that ultimately inspired me came from CaptainSmirk, who wrote on December 13, 2009, in response to Tirathon's question that Kinch, of all people, would have gone on to write Harlequin romance novels. Specifically, CaptainSmirk stated:_

 _"_ My guess would be Kinch. He's articulate, has an excellent grasp of language and after his long stint in a prisoner of war camp he certainly understands longing, denial and fantasy."

 _"Oh, he does, does he?" I asked myself. "You could say the same of Newkirk or LeBeau, but let's give Kinch a chance to disgrace himself, shall we?"_

 _There was a little hitch: Harlequin Romance novels didn't exist until the 1970s. But conveniently enough, Harlequin's British predecessor, Mills and Boon, began publishing escapist women's novels in the 1930s. (They also published serious works by people like Hugh Walpole and Jack London.) So rather than have Kinch wait 30+ years for his big break, I tidied up the historical timeline to match the idea of writing romantic novels rather than Harlequin novels specifically._

 _So here we are, at the end of what was (for me at least) a very fun romp through one of my favorite forum topics. A hat tip goes to **AnotherJounin** , who started the "Which of Our Heroes" thread in the first place. I can't close without extending a special thank you to **Atarah Derek** , **Terri Spencer** , **Tiny1217** (x3!), **Konarciq** , **Snooky-9093** , **Kamkats** , **Tuttle4077** and **CaptainSmirk** for asking the questions that sparked these responses._


End file.
